


Clouding the Annals of History

by BeatrixGtheMaskedDogNoobsomeExagerjunk



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Hamilton - Miranda (Broadway Cast) RPF
Genre: Afterlife, Amounts of Body Dysphoria, Bodyswap of Sorts, Combining Products of Broken Times, Cross-Posted on Amino, Death, Gen, History, Human Disaster Aaron Burr, Lin-Manuel Miranda Appreciation, Merciless Storytelling, Metafic?, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Poor Aaron Burr, The Glorious Arts of the Early 21st Century, legacy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-06
Updated: 2018-01-06
Packaged: 2019-02-27 05:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13241538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeatrixGtheMaskedDogNoobsomeExagerjunk/pseuds/BeatrixGtheMaskedDogNoobsomeExagerjunk
Summary: People like Aaron have legacies, remembrances and the like.People like Aaron get to experience and revel in them first hand. The other side knows when the time is right for them to do so.Of all occasions of these things happening to him, from the cold and corrupt politician, the unlucky radical thinker, to the most loving and caring father, Aaron Burr concludes that the Mirandian interpretation of his identity is something else.No really--he feels like someone elsebut not reallyafter all.





	Clouding the Annals of History

**Author's Note:**

> **Important: the discomfort one feels when they are in another body, implied nods to discriminatory racial distinction, generally heavy stuff, metafic (?), afterlife of sorts**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> I NEEDED TO GET THIS IDEA OUT OF MY HEAD DAMN IT (I blame myself for drowning in the work of evocates)
> 
> SHOULD'VE BEEN A ONE-SHOT BUT I WANTED TO STOP.
> 
> beware of inconsistent subject-verb agreement

The click of what sounded like those European devices--musical boxes--stirred Aaron up, air filling his non-existent lungs.

 

Right again--dead. Aaron knew and always felt that.

 

A reminder of it could only mean one thing.

 

This Heaven gifted Aaron the chance to cherish what the world did to honor his memory.

 

To his experience, ~~ _has it really been more than two centuries?_~~ the world did not know how to honor him at all.

 

Legacy paid him no mind before, but the Heaven made sure the idea stuck to his mind.

 

As of that point in time, he was filled with worry.

 

To feel more alive than dead all of a sudden meant the Heaven was ready to show him something the world had to say about him.

 

He felt as if he was laying down on a soft surface. Must be a bed.

 

The music kept going, the pleasant melody keeping sure he was fully awake.

 

His eyes opened to a starry night sky, slightly obscured by the walls of a roofless house. (Turns out there was a roof; one can easily ignore glass.)

 

Inhaling then exhaling--the foreign act suddenly becomes familiar--he raised himself up.

 

Everything was off: he felt a breath of air taller, a sip of water thinner, a puff of opium healthier, and a kiss on the lips more broken at life, like Shakespeare _(or some contemporary one--his pen may be timeless but aged, as this current pen felt as fresh as a common harvest)_ had dramatized the most mundane moments of it.

 

His head turned about, looking for the machine. When he eyed it, the music stopped.

 

He got up and then paused at his motions, catching a glimpse of what was apparently his hand.

 

~~His hand.~~

 

His **hands.**

 

Smoother and cleaner than expected for its rich, full color, his hand was burnt, scorched, toasted--it had been dyed in the ink the unknown genius had used to tell his story.

 

_Why did the artist paint him like this?_

_Did the fellow despise him?_

_Adore him?_

_Were they chanting his voice on abolition?_

_Or were they mocking his relatively hypocritical chain-holding hands?_

 

Both of his hands were soaked in the dark color, cloaked in a softer velvet-cotton shirt and a more comfortable coat that presented itself in a bold, lunar indigo.

 

He took a further look at himself, the coat he apparently stood in bearing a cut unfamiliar and contemporary. Oddly to him, the style was quite appealing. Classy and stark, somehow reveling in a sensation well-known and used to.

 

The breeches were more comfortable than ever, kept on tight by a most likely modernly-cut belt, the buckle having engravings of the American Stars and Stripes. The breeches were dark grey.

 

The edges of the silver waistcoat were visible, the sight of petite, decorative chains shining from under the long coattails.

 

The stockings were an opulent black instead of the common white, and the leather of his black shoes seemed fresh and unknowingly at the same time synthetic.

 

The fit was right to him, and it enhanced the good parts of his new, foreign, painting of himself.

 

That's right-- ** _himself_**.

 

He glanced about for a mirror.

 

There was no mirror.

 

He paced about the room--no windows to achieve some sort of reflection.

 

The closest thing to a reflective object was the roof, but the galaxies behind the glass faced him instead.

 

He had never felt so far from himself.

 

This happens every time.

 

It was his character at first, but now history refuses to even picture him truthfully.

 

Before Burr even decided to mumble angrily to himself, he placed a hand to his throat. No amount of death could cloud his judgment--these are well-trained vocal chords.

 

The author must've used an orator in this false picture.

 

He cleared his throat, the foreign voice now his echoing in his ears.

 

He made a simple "ah", surprised by the exceptional quality of his voice.

 

Smooth, thick, rich...perhaps hindered to some degree in regards to elegant pronunciation.

 

_(He later on realized, once he spoke more, that 'twas a defect so minor its function as a defect had turned into an complement, augmenting the incredible vocal quality. It was meant to mark the voice's uniqueness and its belongingness to...well, not Burr, definitely.)_

 

The melody that stopped previously remained stuck in his head for so long; Burr hummed it to himself, pleased at the return of comforting noise, the composition of the melody itself, and the sound of his own voice.

 

He smiled for the first time in times like this, for so long.

 

~~_It was weak, but a smile nonetheless._ ~~

 

He faced the machine again (his humming began to diminuendo)--small and in the shape of a star.

 

He walked toward it, silently now, heel clicking and floor creaking harmonizing through echoes that filled the room, to study the source of music in curiosity.

 

He picked up the object (it revels in colors visible in his clothing, as well as schoolhouse glitter glue doodle-stars) with caution.

 

He found the ratchet lever, wound it up, but no sound produced.

 

He caught the lock on the opposite side of the ratchet lever, noting it was unable to be opened.

 

He looked down on the desk where the box previously laid; there was a pale and incredibly cut parchment, atop it a small, silver key.

 

Whoever wrote the correspondence had horrible handwriting--sloppy and clearly written by one who is illiterate. Somehow, it was comprehensible, and if one took the effort to read, grammar used more properly than the most intelligent of Aaron's time was observed.

 

 

 

> ~~**_Oh, this will be a doozy. This whole damn thing. I'm gonna snap eventually and you will revel in my excessive cussing_ ** ~~

 

 

This was the heading note, in an ink lighter than the usual black.

 

Burr could only make out the first two sentences from behind the strikethrough.

 

 

 

> **_To Aaron Burr if it really is you,_ **

 

The man himself raised a brow at the author's doubt, straight at the salutation.

 

From that point on, the ink was a violet color. (Burr was impressed at its consistent color.)

 

He placed a hand to his chin (clean shaven at least), as he read along.

 

 

 

> **_To be frank with you, I didn't think my work would have such impact that your very being would revel in it! Perhaps it was the right decision to tackle legacy head on in this work._ **

 

Tackle legacy--only then did Burr realize why the others warned him of a play. _Others he always bumped into, and others he had no desire to meet or had no reason to._

 

They couldn't tell him anything else; only Alexander seemed to have no grasp or idea.

 

~~'Tis a shame that he must always butt heads with him; this afterlife they all shared in wasn't exactly perfect.~~

 

 

 

> **_As the universe requires, I should inform you beforehand the contents of this work you are to experience apparently._ **

 

> **_I'll address this now. I am a playwright. Like Shakespeare, I've taken great interest in the arts of drama and theater. (I have no right to be compared to him--there are far better.) Unlike him, my styles and designs are far different, as this work is embellished in concepts so contemporary and so advanced. Such things serve to fulfill the needs of the people of my time._ **

 

 

 

Had the author had some great expertise that he had been compared to Shakespeare? Burr knew the works of Shakespeare; such level of relevance from two centuries after his own time was impressive.

 

And if the author was that great, Burr never seen such a sense of humility before. The average successful person would give gratitude than refuse the gift he was given.

 

 

 

> **_The music is one. Take this like an opera, but with singing like the ones you find in taverns mixed with rhythmic and slightly poetic speech. This odd concoction may require some effort to take in, but I have confidence in the work's capability to hex your senses. (No seriously; music is the literal means of communication in this play--it's called a musical for a reason.)_ **

 

 

The odd concoction of a concerto, recital, performance, and thespianism--the future clearly sought to satisfy far more than what the author had spoken of. The average consumer would not ask the cook for a special dish, they would ask for something specific, known to them enough to fit their needs.

 

Aaron concluded that the author sought praise, or at least more than he usually received, and that the author begged for it in a deceivingly humble voice.

 

 

 

> **_All the faces you're bound to encounter won't harm you (physically). They're actors, and dear friends of mine. I ask that you don't wish harm on any of them._ **

 

 

 

Burr retracted his previous conclusion.

 

The author was a playwright after all--an artist of a performing medium.

 

If his life (or _Hamilton_ 's--it's more likely) that the playwright took great interest in, he questioned the probable preferences of the future, then the ability of a person's life to become a muse.

 

He mentally applauded the author's ability to create with his own friends.

 

 

 

> **_You may catch my own face somewhere--our true meeting will happen when you've finished studying everything._ **

 

 

 

Oh goodie.

 

 

 

> **_Everything else I've failed to mentioned is because of my almost-forty-years-old memory, and that there are things you could figure out yourself._**

> ~~**_Writing this has a time limit, for your information_ ** ~~

 

Burr tsked to himself.

 

The anxiety that he repressed leaked in slowly into his system. He could snap at any point from there.

 

The playwright could be better than that.

 

 

 

> **_I could only wish good luck to you now. May this be a wonderful experience, and that the good tidings will last until the end of our meeing. (That is, in the condition that eternity will not bend itself to the will of friendship.)_ **

 

 

 

 

> **_Siempre,_ **

 

 

 

> **_L.M. Miranda_ **

 

 

 **Miranda** \--that was the person's name.

 

Before Burr folded the paper for his keeping, he caught the postscript.

 

>   
>  **_P.S. You'll bump into one of my friend's first before meeting me--he's classy and well-meaning. You're gonna be fine in his company. (Find a Mr. Odom and you should be alright.) Also, this might be one hell of a ride. Thanks._**

 

 

Aaron hummed bitterly at the postscript, keeping the letter in his coat pockets.

 

He swiftly took the key, jammed it into the keyhole, and the box opened immediately.

 

A new melody played, less innocent and more powerful in sound. Burr liked this melody as well.

 

But instead of being able to appreciate the song, the box opened to a reflection of his new face _(he almost dropped the box_ ):

 

 

_Head shaved, cheeks sharp, nose baroque, lips thin, eyes piercing like his true own...and skin dark._

 

 

As he slowly lifted the box again from almost dropping it, he took a good look at himself using that excuse of a musical pocket mirror.

 

That was when Aaron Burr realized that the painting-- **this** painting of him.

 

A marvelous paradox, conceived so intricately and in such a incomprehensible fashion that his true stature gave him no right to study it; Aaron almost wanted to Goddamn cry.

 

The more impressed he was, the sweeter the melody sounded.

 

His gaze lingered for a while.

 

He looked at himself one last time, closed the box (in turn, stopping the music), and locked the box.

 

At the last click, the silver parts of the object began to glow.

 

Nothing happened to Aaron's hands. (Burr is relieved.)

 

With his peripheral vision, he turned around to see a glowing door.

 

On it a metal plate with:

 

 

**Hamilton: An American Musical**

 

 

 

Aaron sighed, keeping the box in his other pocket (it fits somehow), moving the key to his less dominant hand.

 

A hand to the glowing door--the door stopped glowing; the plate does instead--and then a twist.

 

It was open.

 

_Inhale and exhale--unfamiliar now known once more, Aaron Burr enters the Mirandian stage._


End file.
